by Gary Corby
I said, excited, “Both the rope and the pulley would only be under pressure while we were raising the statue, and before we had it upright.”
Koppa looked at me in surprise and slight distaste. He must have thought I was a lowly slave from the way I appeared, but he agreed. “Master, this man is correct. The purpose of this crime was to smash the statue.”
“Thank you, Koppa.” Callias turned to my father. “Well, Sophroniscus, it seems you have an enemy. At least you have the small satisfaction of knowing it was not your own negligence that undid you.”
“But this means Father doesn’t owe you anything,” I said in triumph. “It’s the man who sabotaged us who owes you.”
“It alters nothing,” Callias replied. “Your father allowed his tools to be damaged. He remains liable to me. If he can find his persecutor then the sum might be recouped.”
Sophroniscus said nothing, which meant he knew Callias was in the right again. I had only one more try.
“Are you sure, Callias, this wasn’t aimed at you?”
“Your loyalty to your father does you credit, young man.” He considered for a brief moment. “No, it’s most unlikely. I have enemies aplenty, but anyone smart enough to think of this is certainly bright enough to know they could only hurt the sculptor.”
Sophroniscus nodded glumly. “I will have to think on this.”
“I expect your payment before the end of the month. Do not fail, or I shall take further action.” Callias strode back toward his mansion.
Father hadn’t an enemy in the world. I, on the other hand, like Callias, had plenty. A murderer out there somewhere didn’t want me to catch him. Someone had ordered me beaten. The political futures of many men rode on the identity of whomever I uncovered. And if I was forced to answer my family obligations, I would have no time for anything else. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind who this was aimed at.
My brother had almost lost his life because of me. And worse, I, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus the sculptor, was the cause of my father’s downfall.
“Callias!” I shouted at his back.
He stopped and turned. His unsmiling face showed impatience. “Yes?”
“Whoever caused this, whyever it was done, it was not my father.”
“Yes. And your point is?”
“If I can prove who it was, will you sue them instead? They say you have a reputation for liking justice; well, if you do, shall we see some?”
Callias stood silent for a moment before nodding. “You raise a reasonable point, young man. Very well. Bring me the name of this enemy, and proof good enough for a court, before the end of the month. If you fail, the responsibility falls on your father.” And so saying, he turned on his heel and walked rapidly away.
To put it mildly, the atmosphere in our home that night was despondent. Father blamed himself for almost losing a son. He left dinner early and shut himself in his office, to ponder his finances for some way to pay Callias. I was not hopeful and nor, I suspect, was he. Socrates blamed himself for playing silly games underneath the statue, forgetting that Father would be facing the same financial ruin regardless. I was the only one to receive any praise-for pulling Socrates from danger-and that served only to make me more miserable because I was sure the sabotage had been directed at me.
The only one carrying on any semblance of normal life was my practical mother.
“That’s because there’s nothing else I can do to help,” she said, when I asked her. “Your father will work it out; I have every confidence. When we returned to Athens after the Persians sacked it, we’d lost everything and had to start again, and then we had a small baby to care for-you.”
The revelation that Ephialtes had considered exposing Diotima to die as a child had kept niggling at me. Was it really true, or was it something Euterpe had made up to gather sympathy? I couldn’t be sure; I decided to put the matter to rest by asking the one person who could tell me what had really happened.
“It was a close call,” Phaenarete admitted. She was instructing the slaves for their household duties, but I interrupted her to ask the question. “I remember it was an easy birth; Euterpe suffered little compared to most women, for all the fuss she made.” Phaenarete grimaced. I had no trouble imagining the drama Euterpe would have created.
“When it was over I cut the cord and tied it, and put the baby into Euterpe’s arms. Euterpe did whatevery new mother does, check the sex of her child. She saw, but said nothing. As custom required, Ephialtes was called, and when he entered the room Euterpe held up the baby to him, still without saying a word. I remember he just stood there and stared.
“Euterpe said, ‘I present your daughter,’ and she cringed a little.
“Ephialtes was silent for a moment, while he considered. Then he said, ‘Expose the child.’
“Well, Euterpe went into hysterics. You can imagine! I think at that moment, maybe for the first time in her life, she must have developed strong feelings for someone.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“This happens every time a child is born, and I never say anything. It isn’t my place. The mother has no say either, only the father decides whether to keep the child.
“Euterpe must have been sore and in some pain, but she threw herself on her knees and begged for the child’s life, making all sorts of promises. I won’t go into the details of that conversation! It was torrid, I must say. I was embarrassed to have to listen, but I could hardly walk out.” Phaenarete shuddered.
I said, “Wasn’t she taking a terrible risk, a woman in her position? He might have walked away and simply never returned.”
Phaenarete nodded. “I thought so too. But he took the baby from Euterpe’s hands, which meant he accepted her, and said, ’Very well, you may keep the child, but only so long as you keep your bargain,’ referring to all the promises she’d made. He handed the baby back to Euterpe, turned his back on the whole scene, and walked out of the room. I helped Euterpe back into bed, cleaned and washed her, made sure she and the baby were comfortable, and left. Later I recommended a wet-nurse. Ephialtes paid my bill on time but didn’t send a bonus. I expected that; men only pay a bonus if it’s a boy. I suppose Euterpe’s been bound by those promises she made ever since.”
“You think that was hard on her?”
“I think she’s had a remarkably soft life. I’m almost jealous.” Then she laughed. “Don’t look so shocked, my son! But it’s true enough that the hetaerae have much freer lives than we respectable married women. They’re permitted to walk the streets whenever they want. They can go to the theater. They can talk with men. They can even socialize with men.” She laughed once more. “Of course, that rather goes with the job.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a husband?” I asked, amazed.
“Oh, I’m happy enough! I have a good husband, even if one that’s absentminded and covered in gritty marble dust. There are worse fates to befall a woman, dear boy, much, much worse. And every day I thank the Goddess Hera that I have what I have. A girl’s father decides whom she will marry, and it’s the luck of the draw, my son, what husband a woman gets. He might treat her well, he might beat her, though if he beats her and the neighbors know of it he might be excluded from public office until he behaves better, but that’s the only punishment for a wife beater.”
I think I must have gone quite white.
“It’s not so bad, dear. The women, after all, are in charge at home, whatever the men might think. The slaves work for me, not your father.” She paused. “I have spoken freely with you, perhaps more freely than a woman should, but I’ve done so because you are a grown man now, my son, and when the time comes for you to marry, I wish you to remember what I have said about the lot of a woman.”
“I will,” I promised. “You shocked me, Mother, when you said you’d been midwife at Diotima’s birth. You’ve been called out to so many births, but somehow I’ve never thought of the babies you deliver as being real people. I’ve never met one before.�
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“You’ve met several; you just didn’t know it. They’re all real people, Nicolaos, all those babies, even the ones that are exposed.”
“What happens to them?” Exposing babies was something everyone knew happened, but no one ever talked about.
“The ones that the father doesn’t want? They die, for the most part; rarely a passerby will take an abandoned baby to raise as a slave. But most are stuffed into clay pots and left, still crying, at the cemetery by the Dipylon Gate. Some are thrown down old wells. The babe is killed by cold, or hunger, but not directly by the father, so the Gods won’t hold him responsible. The baby just cries and cries, until eventually there’s silence.” Phaenarete’s voice was harsh and it was obvious who she held responsible.
This conversation was making me squirm, but, having started it, I was determined to finish. “Have you ever…”
“Killed a baby I delivered?” She grimaced. “Never a healthy one. I wouldn’t dare offend Eireithya, the Goddess who controls childbirth. What might she do to the next baby I had to deliver, if I killed one that she allowed live? No, I leave the killing to the men.”
A sudden thought came to me, a startling one I’d never had before. “Uh, Mother, did you…or rather, did Father…that is, did Socrates and I…ever have a sister?”
Phaenarete said, her voice firm, “No, you never have, Nicolaos. And if you had, she would be with us now. Your father has never been so poor that we could not feed another mouth.”
I’d been sure that would be the answer, but I was surprised how relieved I was to hear my mother say it.
Phaenarete sent two men to fetch water from the nearby well, and ordered the girls to sweep out the public rooms. As the slaves left for their duties she said, “One thing I’ll tell you, my son: I know it’s important for you to find Ephialtes’ killer, but I saw him prepared to let a little girl die, and I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
11
The funeral procession began at dusk, as is the tradition, so that Apollo the Sun God would not be offended by the sight of the dead man. I would have attended the funeral in any case, to see the reactions of everyone involved, but with Diotima as one of the main actors I had a double reason to be there.
I stood outside the house of Ephialtes, among many men. They had come to pay their respects, or perhaps they had simply come to see the fun. I knew some men were laying bets there would be a riot at this funeral. Pythax obviously thought so: he had Scythians grouped in pairs throughout the crowd. He and I caught each other’s eyes. I nodded, Pythax looked away.
The door opened, and Stratonike stepped outside, wearing a dark shift and walking barefoot. She was a thin woman, almost bony, and her face was drawn; her hair was cropped and untidy, but that of course was as it should be for a woman in mourning. Her eyes were a little wild and she looked back and forth, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening.
A woman stood to each side of Stratonike, and I knew these must be her nurses. They were large, middle-aged, and appeared strong. They weren’t Hellene; perhaps they were sturdy mountain stock from Thrace. They would be slaves for sure; no free woman would willingly do their job. I wondered why a man like Ephialtes would have kept Stratonike when he could surely have disposed of her and married elsewhere.
Diotima stepped through the doorway, dressed as Stratonike was in a dark shift. I saw that sometime since I last saw her she had taken shears to her hair, which now was ragged and short.
With the body about to leave, libations were to be poured to cleanse the entire building. A nurse dipped a cup into the urn that I had used days ago to purify myself, and pressed it into Stratonike’s hand. She looked as if she was about to drink it, but the nurse grabbed her hand and gently turned it until the water fell into the dust. The nurse said something and encouraged Stratonike to repeat her words.
Diotima stepped forward with a face set like stone and dipped her cup into the urn. She spoke the words of the ritual in a clear voice, calling for the house to be cleansed of evil. She too spilled the cleansing water upon the doorstep.
Now Pericles, Archestratus, Rizon, and men I didn’t know walked inside, and emerged with the bier. They laid the body upon a wagon that had been dressed in black. The crowd was completely silent. Stratonike, held by the nurses, waited behind while Diotima stepped to the fore carrying a jar of libations. Rizon stepped to the fore too, carrying a spear. Diotima was surprised by this, and went to Rizon and took hold of the spear in its middle.
He refused to let go, though I could see her tugging. They had words while the crowd watched, said low so no one else could hear, but there was no doubt in my mind what was happening. The spear represented vengeance for the man who had died by violence; it was always carried before the body of a murder victim, and Diotima was quite certain that she and not her future husband was going to carry the burden. This was so far beyond reason that most of the crowd didn’t understand what was happening.
I think Rizon realized he was starting to be the centerpiece of a very public show. He let go in order to avoid a spat at his first public appearance as the heir of Ephialtes. I smiled, realizing something he probably did not: he had also acquiesced to his future wife in public and at their first ever meeting, a precedent I was quite sure Diotima had knowingly engineered. She had made two important points in one action.
Diotima set off, carrying the libations in one hand and the spear in the other. The musicians hadn’t been expecting the abrupt start. They were slow to commence playing, so that Diotima was well on her way before the crowd could follow. The procession wound its way through the streets of Athens to the cemetery by the Dipylon Gate, mourners wailing and tearing at their hair.
Diotima led us through the gates of the cemetery and up the path to the place where the pyre had been raised. The same men who had loaded the body onto the cart now removed it, and placed it upon the wooden platform; a path had been cleared for them through the kindling and old wood.
Diotima took items from a bag and placed them around the body. I saw a stylus and a scroll, no doubt his favorite. She took a torch and circled the pyre, then lowered the torch to the tinder. The flames rose quickly.
Stratonike had been watching all this standing between the protective arms of her nurses, her face slack and uncaring, as if she were almost infinitely bored. Now she reacted as the flames reached up to her husband. She turned swiftly to one nurse, then the other. She was saying something I couldn’t hear. One nurse said something to her gently.
Stratonike laughed, great gutfuls of loud raucous laughter that carried across the crowd. This was a terrible omen. The nurse said something urgently, then ordered her to be quiet loud enough that we could all hear it. Stratonike continued to laugh. The nurse slapped her, once, twice, across the face, to shut her up. But Stratonike kept on laughing and laughing, and the nurse kept on hitting until the laughter turned to screeching and then screams of fear. She began to shout, “No! No! He’s coming back, he’s coming back!”
Stratonike cowered before the nurse, who now was shouting, “Be quiet! Be quiet, you horrible woman!” And she struck Stratonike until the older woman sobbed and held her arms above her head.
The crowd was fearful, glancing at one another in doubt. Ephialtes’ shade was sure to return with a disaster like this in the making. There was no way the shade could be placated with his own wife joyous as his body burned.
A man sidled up beside me and said, “There must be plenty of wives think it, but I do believe that’s the first honest woman I’ve ever seen.” Archestratus smirked. He was the only man present enjoying the spectacle. “So, how goes your investigation, young man?”
I didn’t answer but looked around the crowd. Pericles and Xanthippus were both here, standing on opposite sides of the pyre, and I could see they were both making an effort not to notice the other. Pythax and the whole squad of Scythians had accompanied the crowd. Pythax ignored the spectacle and kept his eyes roaming across the faces of the younger
men. If there was going to be trouble that’s where it would start.
The nurses grappled Stratonike under control, each holding an arm. The flames were well above Ephialtes now; what was left of the bier was hidden by the flames and smoke. The men watched silently. Diotima stood at the head, silent and respectful. She had ignored the ranting of her stepmother. Now as the flames died she took a ceremonial amphora, filled with wine. She walked around the mound and poured the wine, which hissed as it touched the hot remains and leavened the smoky air with the sweet aroma.
Diotima put down the amphora, picked up a fine cloth bag, and with a small ceremonial trowel scooped up the ashes of her father and poured them carefully into the bag.
From behind us rose a paean, a victory song of the sort raised when the enemy has been vanquished. It rose and lilted and the woman who sang it danced a small dance of victory in place as her nurses tried desperately to hold her down. She raised her face to the sky and called upon Zeus to witness the defeat of her enemy, and she screamed over and over, “I killed him! I killed him! I killed him!”
Rizon, who technically was now master of Stratonike, shrank back from dealing with it. It was too much for one of the nurses. She covered her eyes to blot out the evil and cried. The other became desperate. She punched Stratonike, once, twice, hard in the head. Stratonike was knocked to the ground.
Funerals are held at night so that the body won’t defile the sun, but that meant any shade unhappy with its sending-off would be free to register its displeasure, and if Ephialtes’ shade was still with us then it would not be happy at this spectacle. The murmurs began in the ring of spectators; a few men decided they were more fearful of staying than the disrespect of leaving early. I suspect more were scared to leave and scared to stay. Those ones were looking around, trying to judge what everyone else was going to do, looking at the fleeing men and back to the stalwart ones.
